Trio and Error
by Sresla
Summary: Alim, Dominic and Eldric decide to escape the Circle of Magi by joining the Grey Wardens. Upon arriving in Amaranthine, they find the order in disarray. Is their plan doomed to failure? And who is this stranger from Antiva they keep running into?
1. Chapter 1

"Fucking elves," Dominic muttered. He repeated the obscenity several times in his head while the drink in front of him made halfhearted _pfut pfut_ noises. He usually avoided ale because the brews did not contain enough alcohol to set it alight properly. His repeated attempts caused a charred ring to adhere to the inside of the glass which fouled the drink. With his mood already dampened, the burnt taste went unnoticed.

Amaranthine had been Eldric's idea.

The Tower held few amusements for those who passed their Harrowings and the trio – Alim, Dominic and Eldric – succeeded the test months ago. The room they were in contained only one chair and Eldric lounged in it now, one leg thrown over its arm. The furniture – shelves, rugs and the singular chair – were castoffs, leftover pieces in disrepair forgotten about in a room that was only slightly bigger than a storage closet. "We should join the Grey Wardens," he announced. Eldric's demeanor was little different from a king on his throne, delivering a mandate to his subjects. "It would get us out of the Tower. Imagine… not having the templars breathing down our necks, watching over our shoulders _constantly_…" With a stretch, the blond elf managed to convey his disdain of those he labeled captors as well as the restrictions they imposed.

An exaggeration; the other elf in the room, the dark-haired Alim, was the Circle of Magi's resident smuggler. It was his skill as a purveyor of illicit delights for the residents in Kinloch Hold which ensured the three enjoyed relative autonomy – and why they had privacy for their trysts few other mages could boast. How Alim managed it was a mystery because the elf remained – even to his companions – tight-lipped about his suppliers.

Dominic poured another shot of Sambuca and placed in on the saucer in front of him. After dripping a few drops of Cointreau into a larger glass and coating its interior, he touched a finger to it and a flame jumped from his fingertip. He held it for a few moments then dribbled what remained from the larger glass into the smaller, igniting it as well. The human mage could number his passions on a single hand: working with Primal magic (namely, setting things on fire), drinking, fucking and elves - preferably combining the last two. Dominic encased the shot with the bigger glass, which extinguished the flames, then lifted the larger glass and covered it with his palm. The tumbler frosted over and he offered it to Alim, who shook his head. With a shrug, Dominic sipped the fumes himself then picked up the shot and downed it.

He should have remembered what happened the last time he became so drunk he could barely see straight; he only needed to look in the mirror at the tattoo on his face. Instead, he scooted over to the chair and put a hand on its cushion, using it to lever himself upwards and into the seat with Eldric.

"That…" he said and paused to lean in, pressing his lips to Eldric's; the embrace deepened when the elf opened his mouth to tease the human with his tongue. Several minutes passed before Dominic was able to finish his thought, "might be the best idea I've ever heard in my _life_." Truthfully, Dominic would have considered any notion brilliant, as he was more concerned with stripping the two elves out of their robes. Eldric could have suggested he present himself to Knight-Commander Greagoir, nude, while singing the chantry hymn 'Enjoy the Silence' and he would have said it sounded like a amazing plan – if it ensured one or preferably both elves undressed within the next five minutes.

Alim still sat on the floor but stared at the other two intently. "I don't know…" Whereas strong spirits fueled Dominic's passion, alcohol made Alim into more of a voyeur. He was never reluctant to join in, but - unlike the other two – contented himself with watching once he passed a certain point of inebriation. This rendered him the de-facto voice of reason whenever Eldric (it was always Eldric) made ludicrous suggestions. "I don't think we've got it so bad here, do we?"

"Could be better, though," Eldric countered, as he ran a hand down Dominic's chest to rest it in his lap. "Think about what it would be like to do it in a _bed_, Alim – _and_ to sleep in it afterwards. Grey Wardens don't care who, when or how many."

Alim gave a squeaky sound in protest, although the idea obviously captured his imagination. "They'd care! The Grey Wardens don't go around…" and he blushed. Considering what the threesome got up to on a regular basis, the fact he could still act the innocent convincingly was a wonder. "Their one job is to fight the darkspawn. I think I'd prefer to stay in the Tower, where it's safe."

"What darkspawn? They've all gone to ground now that the Blight's over." Dominic laid a hand over Eldric's and pressed down, as he thrust up slightly with his hips to indicate what sort of activity he expected if the elf was going to keep his hand there. "Now's the best time to join - we won't have to _do_ anything."

Rather than oblige him though, Eldric nudged Dominic as he swung his leg over the chair's arm so he could stand up. They shifted positions and Eldric walked over to his elven counterpart. Alim watched his approach; the dark-haired elf didn't resist as the blond pushed him onto his back and straddled him. Eldric turned to look back at Dominic; a sly smile spread across his face. "Dominic just thinks it's a good idea because the 'Hero of Ferelden' is an elf. Word is - he's Commander at the Grey Warden garrison in Amaranthine now. And he has a thing for elves - don't you, Dom?"

Dominic gestured with a finger, giving Eldric the universal salute which caused the blond elf to laugh as he simultaneously rubbed himself against Alim's thigh. It earned him a throaty moan even as Dominic began to strip off his own clothes. "Gentlemen, please!" The amused gaze he gave the human rapidly turned into something raw and openly lustful even as the elf underneath him encouraged him to continue. "There's _plenty_ of me to go around."

The next morning, the three made their petition to First Enchanter Irving, who granted their request. The old man seemed pleased by their sudden desire to 'undertake a noble duty that serves the greater good of Ferelden' but Dominic wondered if the elder mage's pleasure secretly stemmed from the fact that the trio was now someone else's problem.

Dominic thought their destination to be Amaranthine, but once they left Lake Calenhad, Eldric insisted they detour for magical supplies. The blond elf set them a merry chase around the countryside; some sort of bell, book and candle scavenger hunt that made the human's temper grow shorter every day they delayed travelling to the port city. One evening, several weeks later, Dominic and Alim confronted Eldric while he bathed – Alim used his knowledge of Entropy spells to slow the blond elf's movement while Dominic stuck his hand into the pool and slowly raised the water's temperature. It was almost to a boil when Eldric made his confession.

"Blood magic!" The pained expression on his face was not enough of an indication if it was the admission or the water's temperature causing him discomfort. "The Tower keeps most of the tomes under lock and key but I've read enough to know… I need that sort of power." His eyes gleamed in the light of the setting sun, its waning rays discoloring his normally pale skin. "We need to find an apostate, even someone who just knows the basics. I must learn it. I _have_ to."

Dominic couldn't stand to hear another word and stomped off in a huff. When the human returned an hour later, Alim and Eldric were still deep in debate over the forbidden magic. He had stewed over what he wanted to say while he was gone but seeing Eldric again drove the words out of his head. "You could have told us! But what, we're good enough to share a bed with you but not good enough to know Eldric the Unfathomable's plans?" A small bush became a victim of Dominic's ire as it burst into flame. "How long did you expect to keep us traipsing around out here in the wilderness?"

"As long as it takes," Eldric answered, in a tone that dared Dominic to defy him.

It took the attentions of both elves to sway Dominic into staying. He would have preferred to go on to Amaranthine alone – or taken Alim with him, if he could have convinced him to abandon Eldric to his folly – rather than suffer another night in the cold and damp of the outdoors. The trio stayed together, however and eventually found the blond elf a willing tutor.

His name was Githander, a man easily double their respective ages. The pupil of his right eye was blown and the whites of both eyes bloodshot. It gave him a manic stare - but he was sharp enough to haggle for their coin and possessions in exchange for teaching Eldric the basics of what he wanted to know.

They spent two months in his company, until, one morning, Alim and Dominic woke to Eldric's shouts. When the pair found the other two, Eldric held a knife to his own neck, his face and hand dripping with sweat, his muscles straining. Githander stood next to him; the older man smiled as if nothing out of the ordinary occurred.

"He knows enough. You've five minutes to clear out before he cuts his own throat and then I'll set the pair of you on each other – and not in the way you normally carry on." The man leered at them and spurred on by fear for their friend's life, they obeyed his directive. Gathering what little remained to them, elf and human returned to lead Eldric away.

They walked perhaps a mile, Eldric still shaking; he gripped the knife as if it was melded to his skin. A few steps later, the blond elf collapsed. Alim kicked the knife away while Dominic supported him. Eldric shivered as if caught in the throes of a severe fever. "I know enough," Eldric confirmed to his companions, once he caught his breath although the tension in his posture remained. He shot a vindictive glare back the direction they came from, "and when I know more, I'll go back."

So finally, after months, they made their way to Amaranthine; only to find the place a shambles.

The darkspawn, as it turned out, had not returned to the Deep Roads – at least not in the area around Amaranthine. When the three mages arrived, the inhabitants were in the process of rebuilding structures the creatures razed with fire. Inquiring about the Grey Wardens earned them sad looks and murmurs and it took a passing city guardsman to explain the situation to them.

"Vigil's Keep is in a sad state. The Warden Commander opted to try to save as many of the common folk as he could, leaving the base for his order to persevere as best it could, relying on the defenses already in place. While it won him the hearts of the people, I think the Grey Wardens of Ferelden might have made their last stand in the battle. It's half a ruin now and maybe a fifth of what it was before."

The three exchanged looks; Dominic was the one to speak up, "The Commander…?"

The man lowered his voice, "Set things in motion for repairs but is heading back to Denerim or left already. We're all of us afraid the King is going to take him to task about his choices here – though I think even Calenhad would have been hard pressed to do better." The guard halted and glanced around, as if checking to see if he would be overheard. "Not that the Grey Wardens are the cheeriest lot you'll ever meet but the Commander was more solemn than anyone I've ever met. Not all there, if you get my meaning."

The looks the three gave him made him hasten to amend his statement. "Not mental, just… missing something. Stare at him too long and you could feel a sadness sort of… taking hold of you like it had him. Even so, he always offered a kind word. The Commander's a hero round here, even if he **is** a mage and an elf… begging your sers' pardon, of course." With a short bow, the man excused himself to return to his duties and the three friends were left with the decision of what to do next.

"I think we should go to Vigil's Keep," Alim offered. "_Now_ Dominic is right, there really isn't anything dangerous involved with joining them, unless…" he looked over at Eldric, "you're afraid of some hard work."

Eldric snorted, "I _always_ do all the hard work, you little whore. Dom?"

Dominic shrugged, "I go where you two go."

When they reached Vigil's Keep, the man in charge - Seneschal Varel - was almost pathetically glad to see them. They wished to join the Wardens? Excellent! But at the moment there was some sort of difficulty with inducting new recruits. Each was given a room in the outlying barracks and instructed to report in the morning to see what tasks their talents lent them to in aiding the Keep's resurrection.

Despite the stronghold's condition, there were amenities available, especially for a mage schooled in Primal magic. Dominic's first priority was a hot bath. He combined that with a fresh change of clothes and once he felt presentable again, went in search of Alim and Eldric.

There was no answer when he knocked at Alim's door and although Eldric responded, would not grant him entrance.

"Dominic, it's been a long day and I'm really," through the door, his statement was punctuated with an overly loud yawn, "really tired." Another time, this might be where he'd suggest seeking out Alim instead - but not, apparently, tonight. "See you in the morning, right?"

The human wondered how the elves would like a fist shaped hole burned through the door. Alim and Eldric had been partnered long before Dominic became involved with them and it was times like this where his status as a third wheel was apparent. It wasn't often he was excluded but when it happened, he resented it – as he did now and was why he ended up at the Crown and Lion Inn tonight, instead of back at the ruins of Vigil's Keep, drowning his sorrows in beer so weak it was probably criminal to even call it such.

This, Dominic reflected, as he took another sip of his soured drink, was the problem. Another string of curses uttered in his mind didn't erase the sad but true schesis of his life: he was fixated with elves, currently those two elves in particular. He stared into his cup, the amber color of the liquid now marred with flecks of black. He was feeling so put out and frustrated that when someone spoke to him, he barely managed a grunt in reply.

"May I inquire, my friend, if this seat is taken? I do not think I wish to stand whilst I await our lovely hostess' attentiveness to my order."

The questioner interpreted the noise correctly, at least insofar as Dominic's concern over who occupied the chair across from him and heard a creak as whoever the speaker was sat down.

A few minutes passed in silence before the speaker – a man – spoke again. "You stare so fixedly at your drink that I find myself growing anxious. Is there something amiss with it that I should avoid imbibing the spirits here and confine myself solely to well water?" The words were accented, not so thick as to be unintelligible but easily identifying the speaker as not being a native of Ferelden.

"No - it's fine, I just…" Dominic's voice trailed off as he looked up and made eye contact with the person across the table from him.

Eyes of a rich, golden color stared back at him inquisitively. The man – elf's (of course, elf's) – skin was tanned, darker than the pallid skin tones around him, which made him look even more striking by comparison. Arcing down from his left eyebrow to his jaw were three sinuous, dark strokes; a tattoo that – instead of covering - seemed to accentuate the lines of his face. His hair was shoulder length and blond, but instead of severely pulling it back as Eldric did, he wore it loose except for two braids tied back, away from his face. When Dominic failed to continue, the man's expression grew concerned.

"My friend, does something ail you? If so, allow me to fetch a healer," and the elf made to stand up in his willingness to do what he could to aid the human.

"No, no! I'm sorry. I was just surprised." When the man raised an eyebrow questioningly, Dominic added, "to see an elf, I mean." When the elf raised both eyebrows, it dawned on him what he'd just said and he hurried to correct himself. "Not that there's anything wrong with elves! I like elves! My best friends are elves! Elves are **great**!" When he'd finished blurting out the last sentence, he put down his drink to cover his face with his hands, barely able to keep himself from groaning aloud. '_Why don't you just tell him that elves give you a raging hard-on and see if he'd be willing to do anything about it, while you're at it._ _Because, you know, things __**can **__still get worse today._'

Thankfully, whatever the stranger thought, he didn't appear to be insulted, because Dominic heard him chuckle. He spared Dominic by not drawing attention to his impropriety and instead introduced himself. "My name is Zevran – Zev to my friends."

"Dominic. I'm a Grey Warden." He had no idea what prompted him to say that, rather than call himself a mage. Unlike the rest of Ferelden, Amaranthine at least seemed to hold mages in somewhat higher regard than the rest of the nation, due in no small part to the Warden Commander - which might explain why he identified himself as a Grey Warden, instead.

"Are you? Intriguing." Zevran's scrutiny appeared to intensify. "Curious to see a _Grey Warden _so far afield from Vigil's Keep. Or is it just that their supplies to not extend to ale and you came to the city to seek refreshment?"

'_He's interested. Be cool."_ If he could recover from his initial social blunders with the elf, the evening might not be a total loss after all, Dominic decided. "I came to Amaranthine to slake my thirst." Since Zevran had not yet pushed away from the table in disgust, Dominic thought to try and see how far innuendo might get him. "But…" he smirked and wet his lips. "I remain unsatisfied. Maybe it's something I hunger for, instead."

"Indeed. I believe I know the feeling well, my friend. I hail from the glorious Antiva City and I miss the viands of my homeland. _Chorizo_, for example – and if you ever find yourself in my country, a general rule of thumb is that long _chorizos_ are sweeter and short _chorizos_ offer more spice, although this is not always the case." Zevran gave him a mischievous wink. "Looks can be deceiving."

"I think, Zevran," Dominic said, enjoying the exotic sound of the elf's name as it crossed his lips, "I might have to sample some Antivan fare for myself. Is there anything here you would offer up as a suggestion?"

Zevran laughed. "There are a great many things I could recommend you try, my friend. But alas, it seems I am being hailed by the barkeep to indicate my repast is prepared. Perhaps another time will present itself." He pushed himself back from the table and stood, inclining his head to Dominic. "A pleasure to meet you, _Grey Warden_ – I remain in Amaranthine for a few days and I do suspect our paths will cross again."

Dominic watched Zevran go. He hadn't studied the elf's clothing while he sat, being more focused on staring at his face but the leathers the Antivan wore suited him. The hides themselves looked supple and allowed an ease of movement plate armor – the garb of the Tower templars – prohibited. '_Maybe if they'd dressed the templars like __**him**__, I wouldn't have been quite so eager to leave…_' He wondered at the elf's occupation and his business in Ferelden while Zevran ascended the staircase, '_So he's staying here._' His eyes unfocused and Dominic allowed his mind to wander while he entertained several fantasies involving his new acquaintance. What would it sound like to hear words of passion murmured in another language? Dominic imagined how Zevran might use his tongue to slowly stimulate before wrapping those full lips around him. How warm the Antivan's skin would be to the touch and how hot he would be by the time…

_FWOOSH!_ Until now, his attempts at enkindling the liquor met with failure, but the thought of Zevran - hot, tight and writhing under him - sparked a surge in his Primal abilities even the low alcohol content of the watered down ale was no match for. Dominic fanned away the acrid smoke coming from the glass and a moment later he heard the telltale _ting ting_ right before the mug shattered from the heat.

* * *

My entry for Kaeleen, Xeora and AlmightyGamer's contest over on deviantART. The rules stated so long as I included their original characters (Eldric, Alim and Dominic) a story would be an acceptable art form. I was also granted at least some leeway regarding said characters so if they step a bit out of character, I'm technically off the hook (I pray their fans don't lynch me). I also decided proofreading and punctuation are pants. Feedback is welcome and encouraged (a critique is just as valued as praise).

I'd give all my worldly goods (and my soul, if they'd take it) to Bioware and David Gaider in exchange for Zevran being mine (all mine!), but until they accept my "offer", all rights to their characters and the Dragon Age universe belong to them. Thank you, DG, for creating Zevran – in all my years of playing MUDs, MUSHs, RPGs and MMOs, he's the only character who ever inspired me to write anything (such as it is).


	2. Chapter 2

The orderly stalls gave way to rickety tables and blankets spread upon the ground as Eldric made his way further down the lane. The crowded conditions and desperate looks he received as he passed by guaranteed a bargain if he chose to spend his money. The people of Amaranthine suffered much at the hands of the darkspawn but the mage didn't feel sorry for them; he had no qualms about benefiting from someone else's tragedy.

He perused some of the items on display: silverware, tea trays, small statuettes and mantelpiece knickknacks – human nature's answer to what to rescue from a burning building when faced with crisis. A common misconception; grabbing a sack of flour or some rashers of bacon would have served in better stead.

With food and lodging now going for a premium, necessities took priority over frills. While a family heirloom might be the most priceless item a household owned, it was rendered worthless in circumstances such as these. If any of the three mages had possessed a gift for augury, the forewarning to bring several dozen laying hens with them could have provided the means to purchase any luxury the three desired.

If the Warden Commander was headed back to Denerim, he would appeal to the crown to aid the beleaguered city. The King, in turn, would call on the Teryns who would look to the Arls and Banns to carry out the man's wishes. What shape the assistance took would depend on who tried to curry the King's favor – or who plotted to subvert him – but politics bored Eldric. In the wrong hands (or was it right?) Amaranthine might be painted as a colossal disaster, with plenty of blame to be spread around, given the Warden Commander's background. The commoners would accuse the elves, the Chantry censure the mages and the gentry provided with another excuse for a tirade against Orlais. Eldric imagined the denouncements. '_Elves aren't fit to rule a midden heap!_' '_Amaranthine is cursed; given as it was into the hands of a mage!_' '_The Grey Wardens are corrupted by the Orlesians; they are not to be trusted!_' All these things would point to a ruler inexperienced at governing and ineffective at keeping his people safe from harm.

Still, the city and the majority of its population were saved (in a manner of speaking), with more buildings standing than burned to the ground. Propaganda could depict the events as a triumph, despite the state of Vigil's Keep. Only time would tell which version the history books recorded, but a _favorable_ outcome mentioning the Warden Commander's role? Eldric doubted the elf would receive any recognition at all.

In Eldric's view, intrigues wasted too much time. Power, knowledge and pleasure existed in the here and now as a reward for those unafraid to seize it. A man grew old plotting; youth wasted in favor of long term goals, ones the schemer might not live to see accomplished. Forced to play the game within the Tower (which he had done - skillfully), the freedom to pursue his own interests without obstruction was a heady feeling.

The mage glanced around. The gazes a few of the women gave him indicated if trinkets weren't to his taste, they'd be willing to tumble if the price was right – or even if it wasn't. Eldric grimaced. He'd never, in his life, paid for sex and had no intention of starting now if the goods on display were the best Amaranthine offered, even if his taste had run to women. Especially considering what awaited him back at Vigil's Keep.

He expected Dominic to be furious this morning, given his treatment the night before. Instead, the human greeted the two elves with an odd half-smile upon their arrival in the courtyard for the friends' first day as prospective Grey Wardens. This unpredictability was what drew Eldric to him in the first place and continued to fascinate him.

Having known Alim for many years, the blond elf was adroit at manipulating his dark-haired partner. Dominic, however, remained a mystery; even knowing the human's weakness did not make him easier to figure out. He was pliable one minute and stubborn the next, with few cues as a reliable form of guidance for Eldric to follow. Covertly (or so it seemed to Eldric) they were engaged in a continual test of one another's boundaries and the elf was vastly interested in seeing just how far Dominic could be pushed.

To ensure a pleasant evening for the trio, Eldric left Dominic for Alim to handle. If the human harbored ill will about the previous evening, the other elf would ensure such were forgotten by the time Eldric returned. And if not… it was a deliciously wicked thought that made him harden, the reaction hidden by his robes. Githander's methods were unrefined; the old man knew nothing of finesse – using a sword when a carving knife would do. But blood magic could be subtle, especially if the commands weren't going against the victim's inclinations. '_Being a maleficar means __**never**__ having to say you're sorry._'

Distracted by his own fantasies, Eldric didn't realize what he was staring at for several moments until his arousal passed and he focused back in on the mundane items in front of him.

A middle-aged woman sat behind a table, laid with a white and yellow patterned cloth. At first glance the runner appeared to be homespun but it was the delicate marbling of the colors which made Eldric suspect otherwise. Vigil's Keep might be in shambles but there remained some markers to show it was the seat of the arling. The most prominent were two heraldic banners; these featured the same quarterly design he saw now. He doubted he would be allowed to examine the fabric more closely but suspected there might be a bear passant on the opposite side.

Eldric studied the woman. Hair worn in two severe buns; the skin on her hands was coarse in contrast with the fairness of her skin. '_Not a fieldworker, then_.' She was what he might label 'sturdy' if he tried to be flattering, 'doughy' if he felt less charitable. She had the look of someone heavier but recently lost weight; there were obvious places where her skin hung loosely. The mage eyed the items she displayed. '_Cook, or call me Gaxkang._' Arrayed on the cloth were a skillet, a mismatched set of cutlery (the teaspoon looked as if it might be silver), chipped crockery, five covered jars and two small bags tied shut with twine.

None of these items were what originally transfixed him – it was the small knife near the edge of the table. She'd arranged them in order of size: a cleaver, a serrated one for bread, several others for which he could not name a purpose, two wooden handled instruments he had seen used to slice hard cheeses and the knife at the end. What made it stand out from its fellows was its shape - a pointed tip that curved downward, like a scythe's blade in miniature.

"Good woman, what do you call that implement?" Eldric pointed at the knife.

She was quick to answer; the woman sensed a prospective sale. "A tourne knife, Ser," she pronounced it 'tourney', "or what we call a Bird's Beak knife. For decorative cuts in the kitchen." As if she realized this selling point would be lost on the elf, she added, "Also useful to slice fruits or peel skins." She grinned and Eldric could see where she was missing teeth in the back of her mouth, "Handy for a traveling gentleman such as yourself."

"Grey Warden," he corrected her and tried to re-adjust his face into a smile. Bargaining was another thing on Eldric's list of dislikes; he was accustomed to getting his own way. He was about to name her a price when he saw her gaze dart to a point just behind his head. Without that notification, the light pressure on his hip might have gone unheeded. He turned, expecting to frighten the pickpocket into bolting but instead, he found himself gazing into a pair of amber eyes level with his own. It was another elf - their bodies were so close together it felt almost intimate and for whatever reason, Eldric knew there would be no apology for the invasion of his personal space. He was forced into the unusual situation of being the one in retreat, took a couple of steps backward – and inspected the man who had been behind him.

'_Dalish_,' was his first thought, even though he had never seen a Dalish elf in his life – and the elf didn't match the descriptions or drawings he'd seen. His face was tattooed – not so uncommon anymore; he and Dominic both bore similar markings. Neither mage would admit it openly (Dominic would claim he didn't remember why he'd gotten it at all, since he was drunk at the time), but tales of the Warden Commander being tattooed by the Dalish prompted many mages to follow his lead. The Templars could not prohibit or control what they did to their own bodies and so the act offered a bit of freedom to those who normally had none. '_Brecilian Forest, a tattooed elf, the Grey Warden… there is something so familiar…_' but he couldn't prod the memory closer to the surface, so dismissed it.

What distinguished this elf from any other, however, weren't his looks but his bearing. He radiated confidence. '_If Alim were here, he'd be rubbing up against him like he was a sprig of catmint._' He was handsome though, certainly.

"Beg pardon, _Grey Warden_." The man managed to sound sincere yet shamelessly unapologetic at the same time. "I too have an interest in this lovely woman's merchandise." The lilt in his voice, the way he stressed the syllables of the words turned the innocuous sentence into a lewd proposition and she blushed like a maiden. "It was clumsy of me to startle you so. I apologize."

'_A poor thief but an exceptional liar._' Aloud, Eldric said, "You're not a cook."

The other elf chuckled. "Indeed, I am not. My skills in the kitchen do not extend to food preparation, which is a very good thing considering how often I indulge my insatiable appetite. But as Mistress…" He looked askance at the woman.

She actually giggled. "Otha."

"Mistress Otha noted," he continued smoothly and one might never know the two weren't old friends, "many of these items have uses beyond the ordinary."

The mage looked back at the table and raised an eyebrow. "Your imagination is more vivid than mine is, then…" He did not mean to invite the stranger to introduce himself but the other elf misread his pause as a request for his name.

"My name is Zevran – Zev to my friends. But you do not need to imagine, _Grey Warden_! I do not think you quite realize what we have here!" Before the mage could protest, Zevran was at his side with an arm around his shoulder. "So I shall allow you to ruminate, whilst I illuminate the possibilities."

The elf's patter sounded practiced and Eldric wondered if he was part of an acting troupe; no one was _this_ glib.

Zevran plucked the spoon from the tabletop – the one Eldric suspected was silver - and twirled it between his fingertips. "Do you see the inscription on the stem, the initials 'H.M.'? It is the name of the silversmith, of course, but also an indication of this utensil's sordid history. This specific metalworker, as it turns out, founded a communalistic sex cult – do you wish to hear the details? No? As I was saying, this cult existed for some thirty years; all of them subsisting off the money earned selling the items forged in their little village. Alas, such a utopia was not meant to last," Zevran sighed, his voice full of a storyteller's false regret, "and now all that remains are these bits and pieces of history."

He released Eldric, bowed theatrically and replaced the teaspoon on the table with a flourish. "A commonplace spoon rendered into a one of a kind conversation piece." Zevran picked up the knife that was the focus of the mage's interest. "Now, let me see, what might distinguish this blade from these others…" He held it between his two forefingers and studied it intently.

It happened quickly; the knife slipped, Zevran exclaimed in sudden pain as the edge sliced into his thumb, it started to drop to the ground and faster than Eldric could blink, Zevran caught the blade and placed it back on the tabletop. "I think perhaps it is just very sharp," he said with a wry grin.

Eldric wasn't listening. His whole interest in the knife was for the purpose Zevran had unwittingly put it to – it was small enough to be easily concealed and the curvature lent itself to the shape of the body. The incision was clean and deep, and the mage watched as the other elf pinched the wound which forced the blood to well up, before bringing his thumb to his lips.

With indecent slowness, Zevran licked at the cut; he drew his tongue across it, letting the pad of his thumb drag over his lower lip. It left a faint smear, which he wiped away with the back of his hand.

Eldric felt something shift inside him. His thoughts were clear - two words only. '_**DO WANT**_.' To use blood magic and forcibly control this enticing foreigner with the strange accent and boldness even _he_ yielded to. He wanted to discover if the other elf was as salacious as his double entendres implied. Again, the growing hardness beneath his clothing but in a few minutes he would find release, he would…

He stared without realization straight into Zevran's eyes and what was reflected there dispelled his bloodlust. The impression was so fleeting it was gone before Eldric was sure he saw it. '_There will be a price to pay, if you attempt this_,' the expression read, '_and it will not be one you can afford_.' Eldric broke eye contact then glanced back at the other elf.

Zevran was all smiles again as he turned back to Otha. "My dear, might I see what you have in those bundles and jars?"

Eldric watched as Zevran untied each of the bags and peered inside. He nodded at one and rejected the other. Then the jars were handed over, one by one. The lids were lifted; the contents smelled then sampled. Salt, sugar, pepper he identified (the latter with a sneeze) but the fourth jar spilled into his palm what appeared to be a quantity of chestnuts. "_Malabarica_!"

Zevran and the woman began to haggle in earnest now and Eldric stood, forgotten. For once in his life, he didn't mind being ignored. It gave him the opportunity to study the other elf without receiving scrutiny in return and the mage – thwarted once in his desires – did not plan on a repeat performance if they met a second time.

Finally, it was done. Zevran made a sound deep in his throat and murmured what Eldric could only guess was an obscenity in his native tongue before he tossed a small bag to the woman. "You swindle me out of my last sovereigns, lovely woman and thusly beggar me. You know this, yes?"

Otha laughed and fished into the bag he gave her, "Go on then, charmer."

She handed back a few silver pieces which he clutched to his chest dramatically. "Enough so I might drown the sorrows over my newly achieved state of poverty at the Crown and Lion. You are too kind."

Zevran turned back to Eldric with a grin. "A pleasure to meet you, _Grey Warden_. I might even say enlightening. The town of Amaranthine is not so large that we will not meet again – of that I am certain." He picked up the bag and the jar and departed, tossing the canister in the air with abandon and catching it as if whatever was inside cost him no more than a few coppers.

"What was it he bought?" Eldric asked, once Zevran was out of sight. They had both watched him walk away, for much the same reason, the mage thought – his audacious manner was complimented by a sensual grace.

"Apple seeds and nutmeg," Otha replied. "Oh, and the Bird's Beak."

"HE WHAT?" He was incredulous over the first two, but upon hearing the last, Eldric muttered a curse of his own.

* * *

Feedback is welcome and encouraged (a critique is just as valued as praise).

I'd give all my worldly goods (and my soul, if they'd take it) to Bioware and David Gaider in exchange for Zevran being mine (all mine!), but until they accept my "offer", all rights to their characters and the Dragon Age universe belong to them. Thank you, DG, for creating Zevran – in all my years of playing MUDs, MUSHs, RPGs and MMOs, he's the only character who ever inspired me to write anything (such as it is).


	3. Chapter 3

Alim winced then began the manipulation anew, his eyes shut tight. His forehead beaded with sweat and he was grateful his dark hair was braided away from his face; one less distraction he needed to worry about.

Debris clean-up was not a glamorous job. It was tedious – and necessary. Not all broken stone could be quarried to new purpose and not all shattered timber was fit for burning. His friends rolled their eyes when he volunteered for the duty. Eldric pulled him aside, saying it was beneath him; Dominic disapproved because it was manual labor as opposed to magical talent. Alim didn't know whether to be amused or annoyed over their incomprehension of his gifts. He stepped forward, despite their protests. Seneschal Varel hesitated and Alim saw a muscle in his cheek spasm.

'_He doesn't think I can do it either._' Alim was fit but looked frail, not just because he was elven. He was only an inch or two shorter than Eldric but slighter. As an orphan, he learned to survive on little but his body never adjusted to his change in circumstance – neither did his mind. It would be worth days of backbreaking travail (although Alim doubted it would come to that) if he was granted free access to the Keep's rubbish.

Having grown up with next to nothing, Alim was baffled at the things people disposed of. As a child, when his ability had been discovered, he was handed over to the Chantry. They stripped him, washed him until his skin was almost raw, shaved his head and provided him with clean clothing that fit in preparation for his journey to Kinloch Hold. His crying didn't begin until he realized his old clothing wouldn't be returned. Rank and soiled, the rags were _his_ and he wanted them.

"Hush, child!" Sister Elies told him. She had been at a loss as to what caused his outburst and made the mistake of releasing him to scratch her head in consternation.

Alim was off in a flash. He knew where his clothes would be – on a refuse pile, just like the one where he'd originally found them. Halfway down the aisle, he was intercepted by a Templar. The man appeared in his path suddenly; he moved quickly for someone burdened by heavy armor.

"Hold up there, boy!" He picked up the young elf, who wriggled like an eel, while the Templar strode back to the Sister. "Now then, where are you off to in such a hurry?"

He set him down in front of the Sister, "Thank you, Guire. I don't know what troubles him."

Guire's voice was muffled by his helm, so he removed it. At the time, he seemed ancient but was probably no more than forty. His hair was brown - as the elf's had been before it was shaved off - but peppered with gray at the scalp. He addressed himself to Alim. "Stop your sniveling, boy! You wail loud enough to wake the interred! I don't know if your tears are genuine or guttersnipe fakery, but you've not been harmed nor will you come to any while you're here."

Alim was so surprised by the command to stop crying, he complied - no one _ever_ cared what he did. "My… my…" he hiccupped, "clothes."

Guire regarded the young elf sternly, "Filthy. You cannot go to the Circle of Magi dressed in tatters. These are much better, aren't they?" With that pronouncement, with the understanding that his belongings were _gone_, Alim began to cry again.

The Templar looked discomfited. With a sidelong glance at Elies, he asked her, using only the corner of his mouth to speak, "Do you still have them? They've not been burnt?" The woman nodded.

"Listen here, child. If you want them so badly, you'll have them, but not to wear!" He remained gruff and crossed his arms over his chest. "You'll need to wash them – and _you'll_ be the one doing it, not the Sister and not me – until I'm convinced you've scrubbed the vermin out. Then, you'll get another bath or three because we don't want them crawling back up your arms and into your new clothing." He gave the child an appraising stare. "If you do all that – with no complaints, mind – we'll turn them into something you can take with you."

Guire remained true to his word and three days later when he and the Templar set out for Lake Calenhad, Alim clutched under his arm a nearly shapeless stuffed toy going by the name of 'Orry.' It had a head, body, arms and legs, as well as two ears stuck unevenly on the top of its head, all sewn together with stitches more fit for darning socks than a child's plaything. It was soft in the way cloth gets after being washed and worn too many times, stuffed with fabric left over from its crafting and thyme so it would, at least for a time, smell sweet.

When he arrived at the Circle Tower, he was exposed to luxury he never dreamed existed: a bed of his own, clothing and food – meals, twice a day. He took to lingering in the dining hall after supper in order to pocket food other children left on their plates. At first, it was just fruit – an apple, peach or plum ignored by a child with eyes bigger than their stomach, forgotten when their belly began to ache. Alim wrapped the produce in a napkin then washed it; stashing it under his pillow to enjoy later. Once, an untouched cottage pie, left behind by a senior enchanter when he was called away during mealtime.

Then - the **prize**; a decanter of wine that went unopened when the First Enchanter got into a heated debate with one of his fellows. Alim stayed behind, staring at the bottle. He wasn't an _eriff_ from the Alienage but to leave it behind seemed wasteful. Smuggling it downstairs to the dormitory tried his nerves but once he achieved his bunk, he realized he didn't know what to do with it. When someone tapped him on the shoulder, Alim almost leapt out of his skin.

"Jumpy little _kaninchen_," the boy drawled. He was an elf, blond and only a year or two older than Alim himself, but with the hauteur of a prince. "If you give me that," he pointed at the bottle, "I'll be your best friend." Alim handed it over without a second thought.

Eldric – for that's who the blond elf had been – parlayed the wine into improved sleeping arrangements for them both: Eldric now bunked above him and they had better mattresses, softer pillows, newer blankets and sheets. Overnight, Alim became the boy who could **get things**. When he was in Eldric's company, the other boy's presence overshadowed his own and let his activities go unnoticed. Alim paid attention; he noticed when Sorella and Meline both discarded hair ribbons. He retrieved them and wove the gold and purple streamers together which he then traded to Aranté, making her the envy of both girls – and this was just one of dozens then hundreds of small transactions, paid for in kind or with favors and promises.

As they grew older, the commodities the dark-haired elf traded in expanded. In addition to food, drink and sundries, information became vendible. Templar schedules, a teacher's disposition on testing day, empty passageways or classrooms were all demands that needed more than an observant eye. Again, Eldric was Alim's key to solving the dilemma.

"He's… interesting." They were discussing Eldric's diversion du jour, a human named Dominic, while curled up together on Indrajal's bed. Indrajal was newly harrowed and to celebrate, Alim had given him a flagon of Valenta's Red - strong dwarven ale - which would ensure them at least a few hours of privacy in his empty room. Eldric brushed a few stray strands of hair off Alim's forehead before planting a kiss on his temple. "Will you get him for me, Alim? You can, can't you?"

Alim's answer was to press his lips to the blond elf's collarbone, running his tongue across the bare skin of his shoulder to the hollow of his throat. It wasn't the first time Eldric made such a request and it probably wouldn't be the last but refusal didn't cross Alim's mind. His body was simply another asset to bargain with and one the other elf's friendship bought and paid for years ago.

Eldric moaned, reveling in the attention. "I wish I knew more about him, though," he lamented, between gasps. "His likes and dislikes. What I wouldn't give," he said, before rolling on top of Alim, pinning the other elf beneath him, "to be a fly on the wall where _he_ sleeps…"

The phrase percolated in Alim's head all the way back to the apprentice quarters and long into the night when the sounds of those around him indicated he alone remained awake. It reminded him of a topic his teacher, Enchanter Celik, mentioned during one of his lectures:

"Nothing more than a trick, fit for hedge mages as a way to escape the Chantry so they might continue to practice their forbidden magic."

'_Shapeshifting_.' It could solve every problem he faced; no door impassable, no location inaccessible, no secret unobtainable, as long as he knew a shape to meet the task at hand. It took months (far longer than it took to lure Dominic into their bed, the human was had with no effort whatsoever), bargaining for what he needed by exchanging tokens and favors, reading scraps that contained more folklore than fact and listening to accounts more tall tale than truth.

In the end, it was equal parts magic and willpower and the first time he accomplished it, he panicked and ran headlong into a wall. The blow to the head calmed his nerves but it was still difficult to acclimate. Eyesight alone was a huge adjustment – no colors and panoramic vision rather than binocular, but so sensitive to light that the slightest movements caused him to twitch anxiously. What he lacked in visual acuity was made up in scent, hearing and touch. In the body of a rat, no part of the Tower was off limits to him.

So, when he volunteered – the only one to do so, despite Varel's stare that shamed the more hale guards into a cacophony of mutters and foot shuffling – he wasn't surprised by the dwarven stonemason's reaction to seeing him.

"Feh! I could snap you in half like a twig!" Voldrik Glavonak muttered. "Why'd you put yourself forward for this, son? Doesn't do us much good having you dust around the wreckage that needs moving." The dwarf tugged at his braided beard, "There's no offense meant and it's admirable of you to be willing to get your hands dirty, unlike the rest of these hanky wavers. But we need someone – preferably five or ten someones – who can at least lift their own body weight."

Alim favored him with a half-smile. "Master Voldrik, how are you at keeping secrets?"

Bigger was more difficult than he thought it would be. Dominic and Eldric were the ones larger than life, not him. He knew he looked foolish; standing in the sun, the dwarf staring at him, thinking the heat addled his mind. He tried to picture the transformation. Elongate the body, lengthen the ears, add hair to the tail, remove the whiskers… no, now he imagined something resembling a dog, but its body was too long and its legs too short, almost like a sausage. He opened one eye then closed it after he made sure he hadn't changed accidentally. '_Still human_.' The alterations were too incremental; he knew what he needed: bulky, burly, _bullish_.

"By the paragons!"

It was always the change in perspective Alim found unsettled him – that and the new teeth. He opened both eyes and unlike his other form, this one had blind spots, one directly ahead. The mason was off to his left and Alim resisted the impulse to swivel his head around. "I can see wanting to keep such a trick confidential, elf. You've got my apology for underestimating you. I suppose I'd better see about finding you a harness. Then we can get to work."

The two worked tirelessly all morning and on into mid-afternoon. Voldrik himself was no stranger to scavenging and Alim watched as he carefully assayed the rubble. Finally, the dwarf came over and unhitched him. "I expect old Varel's going to be knocked out of his boots when he sees what we got done today. I'll give you the pick of the salvage; I know a born scrounger when I see one." He gave the ox a slap on the rump, "Don't expect a rubdown; I don't trust elves further than I can toss 'em." He departed before the mage changed back, muttering something about not wanting to know about the clothes.

Once he was out of sight, Alim reverted. He would have told the man a part of the magic transformed his attire – not just apparel, but everything he had on his person metamorphosed with him. A good thing, too; the day's effort left him ravenous and the apple he stuck in his pocket out of habit would tide him over until supper. He leaned against a block of granite and took a bite, the fruit's flesh warm but no less delicious because it wasn't chilled.

The pile the stonemason extracted and set aside was small but Alim knew anything worthwhile would be buried deeper than they delved thus far. He made short work of his snack, then walked over and picked through the items. A bear statuette, crudely carved out of some brownish stone and small enough so it fit in his hand caught his eye. It was smooth and the elf imagined someone handling the figurine with care, the sharper edges worn away over the years.

As he crouched, turning the bear over in his fingers, a sound reached his ears and - always circumspect about his habits - Alim straightened and tried to determine what direction the noise was coming from. Southwest; there was a clang of metal on metal and unsure if he should sound an alarm, the mage moved closer to the source but slowly, so he would not draw attention to his arrival.

No way to tell what use this part of the Keep was put too previously, but the two men he saw were using it to spar, or so Alim assumed. It was difficult to tell because the intensity between the two bespoke some deeper emotion that a simple workout would not elicit.

One he recognized – the human was Nathaniel Howe; a Grey Warden present this morning when the day's assignments were given out. Tall and dark, with lines around his mouth; an indication he frowned more than smiled. The scowling visage represented the sort of challenge Eldric adored; Alim wondered how long it might be before his partner requested him. '_A bear is the symbol of the arling, isn't it?_' Alim mused, mentally earmarking the small sculpture in anticipation of Eldric's inquiry.

The other combatant was an elf and once Alim shifted his attention to him, he wondered why he'd wasted any time on Nathaniel at all. To single out a solitary feature to label attractive would be doing the other elf a disservice. With a start, he looked around; self-conscious he might be caught ogling this stranger by one of his friends, but he was the only spectator.

Even unfamiliar as he was with melee combat, it didn't take the dark-haired elf long to determine Nathaniel was outclassed by the other man. Both wielded a longsword and dagger and if the other elf's appearance wasn't enough to captivate the eye, his weapons were. The dagger was strangely shaped, with notches in the gelid steel and the sword was a work of art. '_If Dominic could only see it_," Alim thought wistfully, because his human friend would surely appreciate the flames flickering along its length.

The elf might be Nathaniel's better, but the human was methodical and continued to parry the other's flurry of attacks while making no overt strikes of his own. His defensive posture was not to the elf's liking and he said as much while making another thrust.

"You... do know how to fight, don't you?"

Nathaniel's grimace told both elves the remark irritated him and he lunged, but the elf moved with unmatched celerity and laughed off the Grey Warden's essay.

"Oh, come now. You can't be serious."

The tone was mocking and Alim saw Nathaniel's face twist, his good looks curdled by anger. Again, the strange elf taunted the Warden in conjunction with his physical onslaught.

"Killing yourself would have more dignity. No? Pity."

In a fury, the human attacked and Alim spotted the flaw in the other elf's plan. He was favoring his left side, which in turn exposed his right and Nathaniel's offensive revealed he was aware of the elf's lapse. Whether his previous inaction was for show or not, the charge was now in earnest and it was the elf's agility that saved him, not his blade work. His dodge was a near thing and the human Warden pressed his advantage, allowing no respite.

Now that he knew where to focus, he could see the muscles in the elf's right arm labor through each swing. The mage realized the sword was the reason for the verbal provocation – the longer the fight went on, the greater an encumbrance the weapon became. Nathaniel's conservative tactics must have drawn the match out longer than the other elf anticipated and now he was paying the price. Alim wished the other would discard the flaming blade but the set of his jaw told the dark-haired elf that – burden or no – the stranger would not be parted from the sword.

Even knowing where his loyalty _should_ lie, the mage uttered the spell under his breath. The effect on Nathaniel was immediately apparent; the change in momentum caused him to stumble and presented the opening the other elf needed. In a fluid motion too quick for the eye to follow, the fiery blade was a hair's breadth from his skin and Nathaniel was on his hands and knees, giving the elf a murderous glare.

Smoothly, the sword was withdrawn and both weapons were sheathed. The elf offered his hand to assist Nathaniel in rising; the human just stared at the proffered appendage with undisguised loathing. He regained his feet under his own power, but did not place his weapons back in their scabbards. The Warden maintained eye contact while he retreated, moving in such a way so as to never present his back to the elf. The stranger, for his part, just smirked at the display but the facial expression did not reach his eyes, which remained cold, almost calculating.

It wasn't until the Grey Warden turned a corner and was out of sight that the other elf looked at Alim. The mage was surprised his quiet arrival merited notice but something about the other man made him realize that probably very little occurred without him being aware of it. The smile on his face appeared genuine now and Alim felt brave enough to step forward. "I don't think he likes you."

"No? Such a shame; I am quite a likable fellow with many admirable qualities. Handsome, clever–"

The man seemed prepared to provide a list but Alim interjected, "Modest?" It was the sort of flirtatious comment Dominic might make; the mage didn't know what came over him and he covered his mouth, amazed at his own daring.

The other elf considered the question before he replied. "Not so very much, no. In fact, I cannot recall a time when the virtue of modesty has been ascribed to me or any aspect of my life. Those who are humble simply do not have as much to boast about as I do."

Alim inched nearer; his usually demure disposition at war with the urge to be closer to the other elf. "Do you think he knows…?"

"That you assisted me with a spell? Doubtful. Our dear friend Nathaniel perceives persecution at every turn and likely believes that, when he tripped, the ground he walked upon was conspiring against him. Even more probable he will attribute the misstep to some trick of mine. Or, that I had simply been toying with him all along and the opportunity I presented was a false one." He sighed. "Were that it was so. I would not suggest you confess it to _him_, however. Your observation was correct; he holds a deep-seated animosity toward me. I do not consider this to be a great loss, as the feeling is decidedly mutual."

"How did _you_ know? About the spell."

"Oh, it is not difficult to recognize magic, not for one who has spent any time in the intimate company of mages and yours was not so subtle – I saw your lips move prior to the Grey Warden's fall. But why assist me and not your brother?"

Alim blinked, "He's not my brother. I'm an elf."

The ingenuous answer took the stranger by surprise but he recovered quickly, "I do not mean in matters of blood. Or perhaps I do – but in this _specific_ case, I meant: Why aid me over your fellow Grey Warden? I could have been anyone; an assassin perhaps, sent with the nefarious purpose of harming your Warden Commander."

"No you wouldn't!" Alim exclaimed, confident in the reply without knowing why.

"Quite right you are," the other elf said, with a hearty laugh.

"Well," Alim smiled faintly. "I'm not a Grey Warden. Not yet anyway; maybe not ever. There's a ceremony we have to go through – it sounds as if it includes some sort of test – and the Wardens are picked from those who pass. I came with two friends and I'm sure they'll be chosen. Even if I'm not, I can stay at Vigil's Keep and be useful – I don't mind hard work."

A shadow passed across the other man's countenance and he reached out and placed a hand on Alim's forearm, "Ah… let us hope for the most positive outcome then, yes? I am certain you are no less worthy than your companions and you should not discount yourself so readily." He opened his mouth as if there was more he intended to say then shut it, removing his hand as he did so.

"I'm Alim," the mage said, to cover the awkward silence, "and my friends are Dominic and Eldric. Would you like to meet them? Are you staying here at the Keep? Are you hungry? I think I…" Alim searched though his pockets for food he knew he didn't have. "Do you want me to get you something to drink?"

"My name is Zevran - Zev to my friends," the other elf said, his grin returning. "And thank you, but no – I am perfectly capable of acquiring food and drink for myself, should I so desire it." Zevran glanced skyward, "I must, however, return to Amaranthine before nightfall and my, hmm… business here detained me longer than I expected."

"So, you live in Amaranthine, then." '_I'll see him again,_' Alim thought, '_and Eldric wouldn't have to know, would he?_'

Zevran's next words shattered that hope. "No, I am a temporary resident of the Crown and Lion and tomorrow will be my last evening in the city. As I know of nothing that might require my return to Vigil's Keep – even another challenge to my honor, such as it is – alas, I must bid you farewell." He tilted his head and regarded Alim thoughtfully, "Unless your magical talents extend to being able to provide me with some form of transportation? A griffon, perhaps."

The mage was about to say he c_ould_ offer him a lift into town, while quickly trying to work out how much different a horse might be from an ox but the other elf's mention of griffons evidenced his comment was intended as a joke. So, Alim laughed along when Zevran winked at him. To pretend he couldn't help chafed his nature; the mage would have happily accommodated his new friend, even at the cost of revealing himself to a second person in less than a turning's time.

Voldrik wouldn't tell; Alim toiled alongside him and dwarves (at least most of the ones the mage had met) appreciated a good work ethic. To trust Zevran was instinctual, even though he felt vaguely guilty his other friends didn't inspire the same feeling. As he watched Zevran leave, he rolled his shoulders, felt the bones in his back shift with the movement. '_I wonder how long it'd take me to learn how to fly._'

* * *

Feedback is welcome and encouraged (a critique is just as valued as praise).

I'd give all my worldly goods (and my soul, if they'd take it) to Bioware and David Gaider in exchange for Zevran being mine (all mine!), but until they accept my "offer", all rights to their characters and the Dragon Age universe belong to them. Thank you, DG, for creating Zevran – in all my years of playing MUDs, MUSHs, RPGs and MMOs, he's the only character who ever inspired me to write anything (such as it is).


	4. Chapter 4

His gaze travelled from the door to the book and back again. Sandor couldn't settle to either but remained unwilling to give up one for the other. The volume was one on Orlesian history; rather, a highly romanticized recount of the rule of Emperor Kordilius Drakon and his love affair with Area Montlaures, the woman who later became his Empress. He found its accuracy questionable and even after several days' perusal, still dreaded that a turn of the page might lead to a paragraph of the heaving bosom variety. It wasn't so much the actual content; his unease stemmed from the ridicule he'd receive (playful but still present) if Zevran caught him reading it. He could picture his partner, whisking the tome away to study the provocative (but thus far nonexistent) passage.

"Oh ho, and what do we have here? Dark hair pooled around her shoulders? Her eyelashes fluttered as she clasped a hand to her… I believe I am quite scandalized over your choice of reading material, my friend." This would be an exaggeration of monumental proportions, since the assassin had gifted him with a Chantry-banned book detailing sexual practices. It contained illustrations explicit enough to make a courtesan blush. "If you desire the company of such a woman, _mago_, we must seek her out!"

Sandor smiled as he imagined it then realized he stared at the door without really seeing who entered or exited. He re-addressed himself to the book, certain he'd read over the same passage five times already:

_She was not the fairest of ladies, nor the most elegant or charming, but Area could shoot the wings off a bumblebee at one hundred paces. By all accounts, when the prince witnessed that particular feat, Drakon - who was not noted for his charm or elegance, and rather better known for his sword and shield - was instantly smitten._

There was a split second's worth of warning – the hint of an unseen presence behind him – and a hand closed around his throat. The pressure remained light, constricting just enough to enable his assailant to feel his pulse quicken upon contact while a voice murmured in his ear, "You have made little progress. Is it the topic you find tedious? Or did you anticipate another form of diversion this evening, one that makes the thought of reading this…" a hand reached out and closed the book, "an onerous task."

Sandor shut his eyes and inhaled the scent of the man behind him. Leather, of course, but he didn't know enough herbalism to recognize everything he smelled. His identification of anything beyond that – lavender, sage, sandalwood all in some degree, and more besides – was tentative. Whatever the combination, it enabled him to sense his lover's presence on an instinctual level and permitted Zevran to take liberties when anyone else would encounter the elven Warden's defenses. Their greeting had evolved into a ritual; a nonverbal signal of the trust they placed in one another.

Zevran released him and came around to the side of the chair, where he bumped against Sandor's hip with his own; the goal being to appropriate the other elf's current seat. Sandor shifted over to the chair on the left with an exasperated grunt. "All is prepared for departure tomorrow, assuming your wishes remain unchanged." Zevran re-opened the book. He kept his eyes fastened on the pages as he flipped through them, "Amaranthine has much to recommend her. You could stay and make a life for yourself; the people here revere the Wardens and their Commander. Those who do not are in the minority and present no great danger."

Used to Zevran's inability to discuss his feelings, Sandor noticed the deliberate use of 'you' versus 'we.' Apart for months – not by choice but forced by circumstance – it was Zevran's subtle way of letting him know that if his ardor had been tempered by their separation, the Antivan would not hold it against him.

"I suppose **we** could," Sandor was careful to stress the plural, "if you've grown fond of the locals' fish stew."

Zevran's expression, moments ago a study in neutrality transformed into open delight. "No no, I am overjoyed we return to the palace and I expect Alistair's reception will be nothing less than heartfelt enthusiasm."

"You're certain?" Sandor rested his elbows on the table, determined to get some of his own back for being made to relinquish his seat by the smug assassin. "My rooms at the Keep are comfortable and I'm sure our new recruits would benefit from the expertise of the most infamous Antivan Crow ever to step foot on Fereldan soil." Zevran preened at the praise, until, "Nathaniel can supervise the training regimen and assist you with demonstrations."

"Denerim at dawn, as you say," the other elf responded dryly and Sandor laughed.

Zevran called Sorcha over and started issuing instructions for their supper, so Sandor let the subject drop. He didn't understand the enmity between the disgraced nobleman and the Antivan. The look in Zevran's eye when the man was mentioned made him reluctant to pursue the question in earnest rather than as a jest. His lover's ability to charm everyone he encountered was the stuff of legend – yet Nathaniel Howe's strenuous dislike of the elf was the reason the two vacated Vigil's Keep and now resided at the Crown and Lion. The animosity seemed to stem from a misunderstanding when the two initially met; one an apology didn't rectify. Sandor didn't fear for Zevran's safety but the human would wind up dead over this ill-conceived vendetta if he persisted.

Sandor watched Zevran as he continued to detail their order to the serving woman. Sorcha kept glancing at him and when Sandor smiled at her, her cheeks blossomed with red and she looked away. The elven Warden wasn't going to be able to participate in the conversation so instead concentrated on the open book; angling it so he could see the script on the page. Her reaction mirrored those of everyone he met now and was why he **couldn't** stay, even if he wanted to. He wasn't a person to Amaranthine's citizens anymore. Sandor was unsure which was worse – the months of scorn he endured prior or the blind adulation he now received. No one _dared_ speak to the Warden Commander; it was blushes, gasps, bows and effluent thanks all done without meeting his eyes.

Finished, Zevran scooted his chair back so it was flush against the recessed wall. He motioned Sandor to do likewise while he dragged the table back; the two elves were now screened by the shadowy alcove's depth. "You ordered this?" He picked the bottle up off the table and examined the label.

Sandor shook his head. "A gift from Haytham; I couldn't refuse because Sorcha set it down and didn't come back until you joined me."

"Warre's and we shall not waste it – but after our meal." Zevran replaced the bottle. The assassin folded his arms behind his head. "The catch of the day is angler fish, mussels and spiny lobster. If the broth includes both onion and pepper I shall be satisfied. I thought my days of tasteless stews were behind me when Alistair was crowned king; little did I know the men of Highever learned their culinary skills from our dear templar."

"Am I ever going to get a full telling of what happened?"

"The tale will be meted out as we make our way back to Denerim; it will help pass the time and give you something to compare against when the minstrels make their way east with the ballads. Their stories will not be so grand as mine, of course – as I experienced the deeds firsthand and they only learned the details by virtue of secondary sources." Zevran gave him a broad wink, "The entire account will be in no way embellished, as the only improvement possible would be to place you at my side, _amante_."

Sandor twisted in his seat and looped his right arm through the back of his chair. "You're not that charming, you know."

"And _you_ are a terrible liar. We all have our shortcomings."

When the meal arrived, the dish was pronounced edible, high praise from the Antivan when it came to Fereldan cooking. "Have you heard the rumor," Sandor commented as they ate, "that Arl Eamon may cede Redcliffe to Teagan and take up residence in the capital?"

Zevran raised an eyebrow. "The Teryn intimated as much, but I am surprised the news filtered through Amaranthine." The assassin extracted a large chunk of fish from the soup with his fingers and popped it in his mouth. His lips formed an 'O' as he inhaled to cool it. "Fortunate we planned a change of scenery," he mumbled through the mouthful. "I suspect Denerim may soon prove… inhospitable."

"Mmm." The noise the elven Warden made was noncommittal. He didn't intend to remain in Ferelden any longer than necessary but this encroachment by the Arl of Redcliffe bothered him. Sandor sensed scheming and likened it to the presage before he encountered darkspawn. Alistair would listen to Eamon; the older nobleman might not have wanted the throne for himself but wasn't averse to being the power behind it. How long before two elves became an inconvenient nuisance to the man's machinations? Not to mention having to tolerate his shrieking harpy of a wife at every palace affair. A thought occurred to him. "Did Fergus tell–" Zevran interrupted him, placing a hand on his shoulder and giving it a squeeze.

"Our entertainment has arrived." They were on a dais overlooking the common room – a seating area reserved for guests, not patrons. In another hour, the inn would be full but now it was easy to see who Zevran referred to. The human was tall with black hair and an equally dark tattoo on his face.

The Antivan began to provide particulars. "You recall I mentioned the three mages from the Circle who arrived at Vigil's Keep a few days previous. I was fortunate enough to encounter each on a separate occasion and I believe tonight will result in a convergence so you may see them for yourself." Sorcha threaded between tables to greet the man and direct him to a table near the stairs. Zevran hissed through his teeth and leaned back, pulling on Sandor's arm so the other elf matched his movement. "I instructed… yes, excellent." She ushered him over but prevented the human from taking the seat that faced outward by absconding with the empty chair and moving it to another occupied table. The man sat down with his back to the two elves; the assassin exhaled and repositioned his chair closer to Sandor's.

Zevran kept his voice low. "His name is Dominic. If his display for me was any indication, he comes from the 'Kill it with Fire' school of magecraft. He is prodigious in his consumption of alcohol; Otkell claimed to have personally served him five pints of Koelschip Oerbier – and he called it weak. It is a wonder our dwarven barkeep did not challenge him for the statement alone; destroying the glass it was served in only added insult to injury." The assassin's hand glided up Sandor's arm and came to rest at the back of his neck. "As far as his other tastes… His two companions are elven and drinking is not the only thing Dominic does to excess."

'_He can't mean what I think he means._' Sandor tried to keep his expression blank. "And you say Dominic is tonight's… entertainment?" To his own ears, he sounded strangled and high pitched. '_I assumed…_' but the mage knew what people said about assumptions. He studied Dominic; tried to focus on his features (which weren't unattractive) in an effort to quell his queasy stomach. He mentally chided himself for having misgivings – if Zevran wanted to introduce the human into their relationship, there must be a reason, some aspect he wasn't fulfilling. He'd have to try harder, he'd…

"Truly, if your runaway thoughts were any louder, _mago_, I would be able to hear the hoof beats." Sandor glanced sideways at his partner. Aware of his attentive audience, the Antivan's fingers wound their way into Sandor's hair, tightened and pulled him closer still. The kiss they shared averred the assassin's whispered question, when the elven Warden could only nod.

They broke apart; Zevran continued his narrative. "Now, where was I? Ah yes, the trio. They share a bond but are perhaps unaware of its intensity and require a reminder not to take their relationship for granted. Of the three, I think only one appreciates the treasure which he has found." He relaxed back into his chair. "So now, we wait to discover if my speculation was correct."

The two elves returned to the remainder of their meal, eaten in silence as they watched Dominic from across the room. The human, clearly unhappy with the seating arrangement, took his agitation out on Sorcha and Otkell. He sent back two glasses of ale before the bartender brought out a small copper-finished brew kettle and slammed it down on the table. The dwarf squinted at the man and yelled, "Is é an t-ól a dhéanfaidh a chabhóg! Enjoy!" then stomped back behind the bar.

Zevran reached over and scooped out a mussel from Sandor's bowl. "Something about drink and dying, I believe – certainly a threat. Dominic would do well to drink whatever is in that carafe. Even if the concoction proves fatal, it will be no worse than what Otkell will do to him, if he sends back a third drink – and poison might prove the less painful option. May I…?" The elven Warden pushed the half-empty dish toward Zevran; he knew he'd have no peace until the Antivan plucked out the pieces he wanted. Sandor watched as seafood was ladled out and he was left with a few pieces of onion afloat in beige liquid. Zevran regarded the bowl then restored a single crayfish before sliding it back. "Alim."

Sandor's attention returned to the door. An elf, his hair in a single brown braid down his back entered and moved over to one of the communal benches, where he wedged himself into a corner between two farmers who didn't even move to give the elf a decent amount of space. He wore a long, green tunic; the shirt was several sizes too large on Alim's slim frame, so made him look even smaller. Sandor made a mental note to send a letter over to Vigil's Keep before they left in the morning, instructing Varel to find the dark-haired elf some clothing that fit. '_He won't wear it, but he'll have it. Old habits, some you never outgrow._'

The elven Warden prepared to reapply himself to his dinner until he saw it had again been reduced to onion and broth. Zevran was studiously avoiding his gaze. Since food was no longer a consideration, Sandor went back to his observation of the two mages. "What school of magic does Alim ascribe to?"

"I am uncertain of his school, but he is a shapeshifter or so Master Voldrik assures me. I suspected; his posture reminds me of an animal poised between fight and flight. I believe he would choose to flee or yield which makes him the most dangerous of the three, as he will be unpredictable if roused. I do not know what criteria one must meet for your Grey Warden ritual," the assassin knew as much about the Joining as Sandor could tell him, "but if any are to perish, I hope it not be him. What reaction he would have if Eldric is found lacking I cannot speculate."

"So, why not sit together, if they're waiting on Eldric?" Sandor picked up his spoon and stirred the soup, poked at an onion to submerge it. Dominic was either enjoying what Otkell brought him or putting on a show for the dwarf's benefit because he wished to live. Alim had ordered… something but kept the bottle in his lap between his legs.

"Ah, no, they are not - not exactly. I am quite full, would you like to sample–"

The Anitvan's rejoinder was less than artful. "Zevran…"

"In my defense," Zevran protested, "I neither said nor did anything that would imply I was – in any way – interested. What _they_ inferred from our conversations is entirely of their own devising. Not that one could blame them. How many nights did you lay awake–"

Sandor dipped a finger in the bowl and flicked some of the meal's leftover broth at his lover; a few drops landed on Zevran's cheek. "Haytham has a vacancy – the room next to ours. Unless you want an encore presentation to listen to, I'd suggest telling me what it was – exactly – you said."

Zevran wiped away the droplets. "I am faultless in this, my friend. I spoke only of sausages, my appetite, sex cults," he paused, thinking. "I also recall…" Then the Antivan grabbed his arm and said quietly, "Eldric."

The blond elf walked in with an air of entitlement. He reminded Sandor of some of the young noblemen and women from Denerim and their blind belief that they were immortal and untouchable.

"Blood mage, newly initiated and willing to subject those he loves to the power, in order to test his limitations. I think tragedy will be his best tutor," Zevran said in a hushed voice. "The knife I purchased in the market was the one he had been eyeing. I charged Varel with its delivery and took the liberty of signing your name. There are no secrets from the Commander of the Grey."

Eldric strode to the counter where Haytham stood polishing glasses. "I'm looking for an elf; blond, with tattoos on his face." The room grew quiet as many customers craned to see who spoke, because Eldric had – unwittingly, in his search for Zevran – also described the Warden Commander, although he was unaware Sandor was still in Amaranthine.

The two elves on the platform couldn't see Eldric or the innkeeper – their vantage didn't allow it – but they heard his reply. "Only elf in here is you and that one near the door."

Alim was slinking toward the exit. His position was the only one that allowed him a view of the whole room – Dominic went unnoticed because his back was to the door – and the dark-haired elf moved as soon as Eldric walked past. Not quickly enough to avoid notice however; he froze when Eldric must have spun about.

Eldric advanced to meet Alim, enough so Sandor and Zevran could see him – the blood mage stood in the middle of the room. Cowed, the dark-haired elf came to stand in front of him of his own accord. "You little _shysi. _You came to meet _him_, didn't you." Alim started to speak but Eldric cut him off. "**Don't** lie to me. I'll know."

Dominic moved while Eldric's attention was on Alim; he didn't stand between them but close enough to intercede. "Eldric, enough."

It was hard to tell if Eldric actually looked at Dominic but his next remark was addressed to him. "You too, Dom? But then, maybe I should have guessed _you'd_ be here."

The entire bar was riveted by the unfolding melodrama. "And why are _you_ here, Eldric?" the human countered. "You asked for a _blond_ elf. I know you're in love with yourself but really – did you need to come all the way into town for a mirror?"

Sandor had only an instant to react. If Eldric's next action was to employ magic, the elven Warden needed to prevent it at all costs. He lunged out of his seat, conjuring a rune to nullify spellcasting. The careless rush resulted in his shin slamming against the bench in front of the railing. Zevran was at his side swiftly, ready to support him if he was unable to stand but Sandor waved him off.

The scene below had erupted into chaos. Thwarted and unable to use magic, Eldric switched tactics. Prepared to physically confront Dominic, Alim had tripped Eldric, who ended sprawled on the floor. The blond mage levered himself up, grabbed a mug sitting on the nearest table and tossed the contents at Alim. The dark-haired elf was too quick and ducked out of the way; beer splattered into the face of one of the performers – the group's singer. Musicians entered the fray and the three mages suddenly became united against a common foe. Fists and objects began to fly as the inn's patrons were drawn into the fracas.

"Such fun." Chuckling, Zevran stood behind Sandor and enfolded the elven Warden in his arms, resting his chin on the other's shoulder. "Lovely Sorcha has fled the premises; no doubt to fetch Constable Aidan. He will, in turn, be forced to send for Garevel and I wonder if it would not be judicious for us to be elsewhere. I suggest our room – engaged in activities which clearly should not be interrupted except under the direst of circumstance."

"I should…" Sandor began. There would be damages to pay, apologies to make; bruises and cuts to mend.

"You should," Zevran affirmed, as he pulled the elven Warden from the rail, his tongue at work on the lobe of his lover's ear.

With only the briefest show of reluctance, the elven Warden drew back; his concern over the scene below melted away under Zevran's solicitude. The pair retreated to their room, the Antivan hastily retracing his steps to seize the forgotten wine. Sandor bolted and barricaded the door (just in case) but it didn't matter – Aidan and Garevel possessed better sense.

* * *

Sandor is my character, and Eldric, Alim and Dominic belong to their respective owners. Feedback is welcome and encouraged (a critique is just as valued as praise).

I'd give all my worldly goods (and my soul, if they'd take it) to Bioware and David Gaider in exchange for Zevran being mine (all mine!), but until they accept my "offer", all rights to their characters and the Dragon Age universe belong to them. Thank you, DG, for creating Zevran – in all my years of playing MUDs, MUSHs, RPGs and MMOs, he's the only character who ever inspired me to write anything (such as it is).


	5. Epilogue

Dominic took a pull from the burnished flagon and tilted his head in an effort to spot his friends. The melee's tide turned on the trio and Dominic decided the best place for him to be (since achieving the door was impossible) was under a table. Crockery and glassware fragments were everywhere and the floor grew sticky with spilled spirits. His own flask had rolled by and he'd grabbed it; being drunk if and when the constabulary arrived seemed like a better idea than sobriety.

He didn't know why his magic hadn't worked. Dominic attributed it to something one of the two elves had done in order to even the odds at the outset. He spotted Eldric, who nimbly dodged one of the troubadours swinging a lute at his head. The instrument struck the man behind the blond mage; Eldric grinned like a madman. He heard a 'whoop' and poked his head out; Alim swung from a candelabrum in the ceiling and looked as if he was having the time of his life. '_How did he get up there?_' Dominic crouched; a shoe sailed past his head. He was about to withdraw to his makeshift shelter when he saw them.

Two elves; one had the face from his dreams the last few nights – Zevran. His arms were wrapped around the other in an affectionate embrace. The Antivan might have been whispering to his companion; or not – the body language between the two was now unmistakable. Abruptly hard, Dominic watched as Zevran lead his partner to the private rooms, only to dart back and retrieve something from the table he now noticed nestled in the niche. Zevran paused, surveyed the scene and saw Dominic. He inclined his head in recognition but the elf's smirk was enough of an indication he had no remorse over a missed opportunity. It was the smile of a man well contented. Then he was gone.

No amount of wishing would make the ache between his legs go away, so Dominic took a drink out of frustration. And another. And another. "Fucking elves," he muttered. "Fucking elves."

* * *

Feedback is welcome and encouraged (a critique is just as valued as praise).

I'd give all my worldly goods (and my soul, if they'd take it) to Bioware and David Gaider in exchange for Zevran being mine (all mine!), but until they accept my "offer", all rights to their characters and the Dragon Age universe belong to them. Thank you, DG, for creating Zevran – in all my years of playing MUDs, MUSHs, RPGs and MMOs, he's the only character who ever inspired me to write anything (such as it is).


End file.
